


Incompatible

by BleuWaters



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Incredible Hulk (2008)
Genre: F/M, I've had this concept on my mind for a while now, bruce is far too gracious for that, it's not as out-of-the-blue as it may seem, let me also just gently point out that the reader has continually acted awful
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-09
Updated: 2017-12-09
Packaged: 2019-02-12 10:51:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12957639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BleuWaters/pseuds/BleuWaters
Summary: Bruce Banner x reader. You and Bruce have been married about a year and a half. He loves you, you love him, it's a pleasant setup. Kind of. (It's not my best work, I'll admit it. I'm no good at arguments and household relationship conflict)





	Incompatible

“I forgot milk,” confesses Bruce, depositing a load of heavy, cloth grocery bags onto the floor in the kitchen.

“Oh, Bruce…” you groan, sliding your hands up against your hairline, “I need it for the custard.”

“The party's in the evening,” he says, reaching over to pet the lovely red tabby kitten he gifted you for your last birthday, “I can get it in the morning.”

“It needs to chill for twelve hours!”

“We have dry milk, don't we? Won't that work?”

“No, it doesn't have the right fat content; the custard never sets! I need the milk tonight!” What's a Christmas party without your eggnog custard?

“It's fourteen below outside!”

“But the car's warmed up.”

“It's almost one in the morning!”

“But I need the milk!” you cry, your eyes filling with tears of frustration and exhaustion. You've been working on this for hours; decorating, baking, cooking.

“I'm sorry for forgetting it, but I don't think it's a good idea to go back out.”

“Then I'll go,” you huff, stomping past him and pulling on your shoes. You shrug off the hand that pats your shoulder.

“Honey, you're tired, and you're anxious. I'll go first thing in the morning and the custard will be set by the time it's served. Don't go tonight,” he says, frowning softly, “I'll make hot chocolate and we can go to bed. You'll feel better in the morning.”

“I'll feel better if I get that stupid custard in the fridge tonight!” you snap, yanking your coat off the peg in the mudroom leading out of the house.

“Do you want me to come with you?”

“No!” You leave the house and drive the ten minutes to the nearest convenience store, only to find you've forgotton to bring money with.

You return home, the time and the forgetfulness turning your anger to shame.

“Bruce?” you call, slipping your shoes off. He enters the living room from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel. “I'm sorry for blowing up at you.”

He smiles, stepping over to you. He's changed into his pajamas; a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, with thick socks on his feet.

“I forgive you,” he says, taking your head in his hands and tilting it so he can kiss your forehead, “Do you need help with anything before bed? I’m just finishing the dishes.”

“No,” you say, smiling tiredly, “I didn't bring my wallet so I couldn't buy milk. And, I get it now; I don't want to go back to the store, either.”

 

~o0o~

 

The party went smoothly (yes, the custard set in time), and everyone enjoyed themselves. A week passed in the Banner household without a hitch, until three days before Christmas.

You're sitting on the sofa with Bruce, your feet in his lap and your head on the armrest. Your arms are crossed loosely, and the two of you giggle along to a stupid Netflix comedy.

You snort at a joke about a talking tree and stretch out your toes, prodding Bruce's right elbow. He moves it, making you look up.

“Sorry,” you say softly. Bruce shrugs and drops his left hand onto your calf, his thumb brushing over the smooth skin.

When the episode ends, you find that you both reach for the remote; you to continue to the next episode, Bruce to change the show entirely.

“We've already seen three episodes of this,” he says mildly, “Maybe we could watch something else?”

“Sure,” you shrug, “Like what?”

“I don't know,” he confesses, clicking through a row of suggestions, “Here, how about this cooking show?”

After reading the blurb, you nod.

“Go ahead, baby,” you murmur, reaching for your phone. You're reading this amazing post-apocalyptic novel and you left off with the heroine trapped in a radioactive cave with a bunch of mutant hornets.

“You don't want to watch it?” he asks, and you shake your head.

“Not really,” you say, “But you want to, so you go ahead.”

“But this is Netflix Night.”

“And we're watching Netflix.”

“The whole point of Netflix Night is to watch something together.”

“We did.”

Bruce sighs softly and drops the matter, starting up the show to watch by himself. You read your novel quietly, though the frantic music on the cooking competition gets to be distracting. Eventually, you stand up, lean over to kiss Bruce goodnight, then go to bed, more to read in peace than to get some sleep.

He comes up soon after with the kitten in his arms. He turns off the lamp on his side of the bed and tucks the kitten under the covers with him. They fall asleep together, a gentle snore raising from Bruce.

You stay up for a couple more hours, turning off the light when you glance at the clock and find that it reads one-thirty.

 

~o0o~

 

Christmas Eve, the most exciting night of the whole year. You've cooked a beautiful dinner for the two of you, one made with little stress and lots of love. This is your second Christmas as Mrs. Banner and you've adopted the housewife role with open arms. You have thought about looking for a minimal part-time job; two days out of the week, tops. But, frankly, none of the jobs near you have any appeal.

You gently place a small, handmade wreath of spruce around the base of your lemon-cranberry Bundt cake, and pile three flawless cranberries to one side of it. It looks better than anything Martha Stewart could make.

“Bruce, darling, dinner’s just about ready,” you call to him, placing the cake on the dining table before skipping over to a mirror in the hallway to double-check your makeup, even though he's always telling you that you don't need it.

“Okay, just a minute!” he replies from upstairs, and you hear him walk across the floor up there.

Smiling to yourself, you run back to the kitchen to transfer mashed potatoes to a big, beautiful bowl, handmade in Italy out of cherry-red glass.

You carry it out to the table and grin at Bruce. He wears a beautiful black suit, as per your instruction, and a satin tie to match. You step over to him and pat his lapel, then grasp it lightly and press a kiss to his lips.

“I told you the custom suit would look better,” you murmur, cross-eyed as you look into his eyes, “I think I'll order you a tux next.”

“Where would I wear a tux?” he murmurs.

“One of Mr. Stark’s parties.”

“I never go to Tony's parties.”

“You could start.”

“I'd rather not.”

You smile, kissing him again.

“Very well, my dear,” you say, stepping around the table to sit down. Bruce sits across from you and compliments your dress. “I bought it when I bought your suit.”

“Right. I'm glad my suit didn't cost twelve hundred dollars.”

“No, dear; it cost four hundred.”

“And your dress…” Bruce blinks, surprised. “Was eight?”

“Of course not!” you laugh, sliding your hands down your waist, the holiday red velvet plush beneath your skin, “It was one-fifty. The Louboutins were six-fifty.”

“Louboutins!?” Bruce's eyes widen and he leans back to view them beneath the table.

“Aren't they beautiful?” you murmur, “I overspent, I know. I'm sorry, baby, but they're just so beautiful…”

Bruce looks up at you and sighs, a patient smile tracing his lips.

“I love you,” you pipe, an ashamed blush covering you cheeks.

“At least you bought me something, too,” he says, clasping his hands together, “Nevermind all that. The food looks great. Smells great, too.”

“Shall we eat?”

“Let’s.”

 

~o0o~

 

Bruce awakens to you nibbling on his bare neck.

“‘Morning,” he murmurs, his voice rough with sleep.

“Good morning,” you whisper, givin him a squeeze, “Happy New Year.”

“Happy New Year.”

“January first,” you sigh, sitting up and rubbing Bruce's arm, “Brand new year. No mistakes. But, also, no memories.”

He nods sleepily, yawning against his pillow.

“You're so right, honey,” he says softly, and you snicker before getting out of bed.

“What do you want for breakfast?” you ask brightly, “Your favorite?”

“I didn't know I had a favorite.”

“Yes, you do,” you chuckle, “My waffles?”

“Hm.” Bruce sits up, yawns again, and looks at you. “(F/n), I need to talk to you.”

You blink, then finish pulling on a pair of fuzzy pajama pants.

“All right,” you say, giving a nervous smile, “What do you want to talk about?”

“Us.”

A hollow sickness turns in your gut and the voice that exits your mouth is almost unrecognizable in its hesitance.

“What about us?”

“I'm beginning to think that this marriage was a mistake.”

Tears spring to your eyes.

“A mistake?” you whisper.

Bruce sighs and slides his hands up over his face.

“You're distant, (f/n),” he says, “And when you're not, it's only because you want something. A compliment, new shoes, to throw a party. You're different than you were before we got married.”

“Different? I-I'm not different.”

“You are! You're very different, and it's honestly a little worrying. Is something going on with you that I don't know about? Please, tell me, because I want this all to be some big misunderstanding.”

“No, I'm not d-different! I'm the same as I've always been!” you exclaim, your tears both sad and angry.

“Is there something going on that I don't know about?” Bruce asks again, “Is...is there another man?”

“What- No! Of course not!” you cry, “Why would you say that?”

“Because there must be some reason you're acting this way!” says Bruce, “I-it’s weird! It's really weird! Do you not love me anymore? Was I one of your ‘phases’?”

“Phases? I _married_ you!!”

“I'm beginning to think you married my money!”

You jerk back as though he struck you, though red-hot fury thrums through your veins. You step over to him, your face set like stone.

“You can keep your money, Bruce,” you hiss, “You may be right. Maybe I don't love you anymore.”

“You want a divorce?”

Pain spikes in your heart, but pride smothers it, and you nod.

“I'll file for it tomorrow,” says Bruce.

You frown and walk out of the room. In the bathroom, you fall to your knees, searing, rippling sobs heaving up the back of your throat.

(F/n) Banner will be made (f/n l/n) once again. Divorceé at age twenty-four.

And this is only the first day of the year.

**Author's Note:**

> Poor things. :(  
> please leave kudos and comments, my friends. <3


End file.
